


Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines (In Pieces on the Ground)

by sophie_448



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Biblical Plagues, Evil Sam Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Dean Winchester, Post Season 2, Sex as a Terrible Coping Mechanism, Sibling Incest, no happy ending, only one on screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-01
Updated: 2007-06-01
Packaged: 2019-03-29 18:43:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophie_448/pseuds/sophie_448
Summary: Post Season 2 AU. Things go down a bit differently in AHBL Part 1.  Biblical plagues ensue, and Sam leaves Dean mostly alone in an abandoned mansion.  Dean tries desperately to save Sam from going evil, but it seems like his brother is slipping out of his reach.





	Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines (In Pieces on the Ground)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Evil!Sam Ficathon organized by [](https://sevenfists.livejournal.com/profile)[sevenfists](https://sevenfists.livejournal.com/) . My prompt was: _For a change, I'd like to see a story where Evil!Sam is NOT evil to Dean, just everyone else in the known world. Maybe Dean is the only weak spot in his armor, so to speak, the only one keeping him semi-sane. And they have lots of hot sex, which is part of Dean's "cure" plan._
> 
> Betaed by the ever amazing [](https://shadowc44.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://shadowc44.livejournal.com/)**shadowc44** who also held my hand most inspiringly as I worked through the difficulties of this piece. Thank you!
> 
> Title from "Fire and Rain" by James Taylor

 

**1**

Dean was living in the lap of luxury. As the phrase flitted across his mind, he couldn’t summon even the weakest of the many smiles he usually hid behind. It didn’t matter anyway, because he was alone in the enormous mansion just outside what used to be Houston, Texas. He sighed and tried not the think about the state of the world at large. It had been several months since all broadcast communications had broken down, and the images on the news had been pretty horrific before that, not to mention what he’d witnessed firsthand.

All kinds of apocalyptic shit had rained down on the world and Dean Winchester, supposed demon hunter extraordinaire, had been in the lap of luxury for the duration. He still didn’t know exactly what had gone down to start the whole thing. By the time he and Bobby had slogged their way into Cold Oak, Sam had been walking down the main drag of the ghost down, some kind of iron bar clutched in his hand, blood on his face and clothes, and a numb, dead look in his eyes.

Dean had called his brother’s name with a mix of relief and uncertainty and Sam had looked up at him like he didn’t even know him. For a long moment, the dead look stayed, then he kind of shook his head and suddenly he was Sam again. He’d run into his brother’s arms and they clung together like the world was ending. Which, of course, it was.

Then Sam had dragged him back to the car. They dropped Bobby at his place then they drove straight down the center of the country until they hit Houston. About halfway there, the firestorms started. It was like burning hail coming down from the sky only, miraculously, not one bit ever hit the Impala. Dean couldn’t help but notice that Sam spent a lot of time leaning against the passenger side window, hands against his temples, muttering incoherently. The one time he’d tried to snap him out of it, Sam had thrown a dangerous glance his way with eyes that flashed golden, then gone back to the muttering. Dean left him alone after that.

Once they got into the Houston area, Sam had started tossing directions at him and Dean didn’t see as he had much choice but to follow them. Not like he had another destination in mind anyway. The “left here’s” and “keep going straight’s” eventually led them to a seriously affluent neighborhood. It also happened to be mostly destroyed and totally deserted. Well, deserted by the living anyway. The firestorms had hit just as hard here as everywhere else. The house that Sam brought them to, however, was largely unscathed.

Dean only had half a moment to contemplate the ramifications of that because Sam was telling him to hurry and get the car into the garage. “Grab what you need and run,” he gasped while clutching his head like he used to when a vision hit. Dean started to protest.

“Sam, what--?”

“Just do it, Dean!” he ground out, his face contorting in pain. He muttered something else under his breath. Dean refused to acknowledge that it sounded a lot like, “I can’t hold it much longer.” He grabbed his and Sam’s bags and ran for the front door, Sam behind him. They had just careened into the opulent entryway when the first frogs hit the pavement. Dean froze, staring uncomprehendingly at the amphibians falling from the sky.

“Shut the door, idiot!” Sam’s voice snapped him out of his stupor and he thought that sounded like a really good idea. As the door slammed closed, he turned around to take proper stock of their surroundings.

The enormous foyer was covered in rose-colored marble and gold leaf detailing. It had one of those curved double staircases Dean had thought only existed in the movies. He glanced over at Sam who was also gaping. When he felt Dean’s gaze, he looked over, a small, pleased smile on his lips.

“Home, sweet home,” he announced. Dean spared another glance over the foyer that was about twice as large as the biggest apartment they’d ever had.

“Uh, sure, Sam,” he said, hoping not _all_ his freaked out confusion showed on his face. If it did, Sam was obviously ignoring it.

“Come on! Let’s go see the rest!”

Dean shrugged and followed behind Sam as they made their way through the house. There was a huge kitchen full of scary, stainless steel things that Dean didn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole. There was a formal living room with _two_ grand pianos and another living room that Dean liked a lot better with a flat screen TV taller than Sam and a really impressive looking sound system.

Dean lost count of the bedrooms, but one that took up most of the third floor seemed to be the master suite. Sam proclaimed that this would be theirs.

“Umm, aren’t they all ours, Sam?”

“Well, yeah, but we have to put our stuff somewhere, right? Might as well choose the best.”

There was a library—yes an honest-to-God library—that had Sam salivating. Dean almost laughed at his brother’s enthusiasm, even though he could still see the frogs coming down through the plentiful windows.

There were a couple of office-like rooms with computers more sophisticated than anyone could possibly need and a lot of rooms that Dean couldn’t figure out the purpose of. Maybe they were just to impress people with how much money the previous inhabitants had had to spend on things like rooms with no actual function.

After they’d finished exploring the house, Sam led Dean back to the master suite.

“Come on,” he urged, a touch of pure sin lighting his eyes, “Let’s test out that bed.”

Dean could only agree whole-heartedly to that suggestion. He did insist on closing all the blinds first, though. He just didn’t think he could stay in the mood if he had to watch the frogs.

A couple of days later, Dean suggested digging a path through the frog corpses so they could get out of the house.

“Wouldn’t bother,” Sam responded.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because what we really need to do is make sure every opening bigger than a dime is sealed up.” Sam’s tone was resigned. Dean stared at him incredulously.

“In case you haven’t noticed, this place is _huge_. How are we gonna do that? _Why_ are we gonna do that?” Sam sighed.

“Let’s just get started, we don’t have much time.”

About twelve hours later, the locusts descended. Dean stared at them beating against the windows grimly. He tossed a glance at Sam, but he was doing the pressing his temples and muttering thing again. Dean was starting to draw a disturbing corollary between the pressing and the muttering and the disasters that reminded him of something from what little he’d read of the Bible.

After the locusts, Sam dragged him out to every abandoned grocery store and Quik-E-Mart in the surrounding area, loading up all the bottled water the Impala could hold, then going back for more. They also grabbed a ton of non-perishable food.

The next day Dean was headed into the bathroom for a shower. “I wouldn’t do that,” Sam said in a deceptively casual tone.

“Why not?”

“Not healthy.”

Dean shied away from the shower, but he cautiously turned on the sink. The red substance that came out was definitely not water. “Okay then,” he said and turned off the tap with a shaking hand. A couple of days later, the water ran clear again, but Sam cautioned him he still didn’t want to drink it. He didn’t have to tell Dean twice.

After that the sun didn’t come up for three days. At first Dean thought this wasn’t that bad, especially compared to the other stuff. He and Sam certainly had ways to keep themselves occupied in the dark. They made good use of the several luxurious king size beds in the house. But then it started to get cold.

Dean figured it was a good thing it started out being even hotter than a usual May in Texas, otherwise they’d definitely have frozen to death by day three. By that time they’d pulled all the blankets from those multiple king size beds onto the one in their room and crawled under the rather impressive pile. They huddled together trying to conserve body heat.

“Don’t know how long we can hold out,” Dean said through chattering teeth.

“Just a little longer,” Sam responded.

The next morning the sun came up. Dean was in the mood to celebrate, but Sam had a look on his face like someone ran over his puppy.

“I have to go,” he said. Dean didn’t understand.

“Go? Go where?” Sam shook his head sadly.

“Don’t ask me, but I have to leave, ok?” Dean’s pulse started to speed up and take on the erratic rhythm of panic.

“No, Sam, not okay! Tell me what’s so all-fired important that you have to take off, or better yet, don’t go!” As usual, his worry turned to anger when it hit the air, but he was pretty sure his eyes were giving the game away.

“Dean, trust me, you don’t want to know. Just give me the keys. I’ll be back in a couple days, I promise.”

“Sam, what’s going on with you, man?” Dean hated the way his voice almost broke on the pleading words. It seemed to get through to Sam, though. He sighed and relaxed his stiff, demanding posture, reaching out a hand and placing it gently along the side of Dean’s face. Dean closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, starving for this piece of the Sam he knew. His brother pressed a kiss to his lips then pulled back.

“Dean, just let me go. This is the way it has to be.” Now his voice held the same pleading tone.

“Then let me come with you.”

“No! You can’t!” Pleading turned to blind panic in an instant.

“Why not?”

“Look, I can’t tell you, but—“

“God, Sam! Can’t you tell me anything?”

“Stop asking me, okay? Just believe me when I tell you you don’t want to know!  
And for God’s sake, don’t leave the house.”

“What does it even matter to you if you’re not here, huh?”

Suddenly Sam was all over him, attacking him with lips and hands. He shoved him back against the nearest wall, a string of desperate words pouring out of him. “Please don’t make me . . . love you so much . . . only thing I have left . . .” He nipped Dean’s lower lip admonishingly. “Just please, _please_ stay here. Just trust me and don’t leave. I couldn’t take it if—“ he cut himself off and stepped back abruptly, breathing hard.

Dean couldn’t keep up the argument in the face of his brother’s desperation. If it was so important, he’d let Sam go for a couple of days. Surely he could keep himself safe for that long, right? And then Dean would tie him to a chair to make sure he didn’t leave again, if that’s what it took.

“Okay, Sammy. Okay. I’ll stay here. Just be careful, all right?” He handed the keys to Sam.

As it turned out, he couldn’t keep Sam from leaving again. He left over and over again, absent for days at a time. Every time he came back, he wore that dead look Dean had first seen in his eyes in Cold Oak, South Dakota. The first time he shook it off quickly, but each subsequent return was more difficult. It got to the point where he might not even recognize Dean at first.

Dean tried so hard to put Sam back together. He didn’t know what Sam was up to out there, but he was sure it wasn’t good. Sam wouldn’t tell him, no matter how he phrased the question, so eventually he stopped asking. He was watching his brother slip away from him and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Sam never stayed at home, or whatever this was, for more than a few days together. Just when he’d started to get that Sammy look back in his eyes he’d take off. In between, Dean had an awful lot of time on his hands. It reminded him of when they were little and Dad would take off, only this time he had no one to take care of. No one to keep him company.

He started fixing things. First he worked on the Impala until she ran better than when she was new. After that he started working on the house. Miraculous survival of the firestorms notwithstanding, there was enough minor damage to keep him busy for a long while. Holes in the roof, doors loose on the hinges, and of course there were the frog and locust corpses to clean up. That job kept him busy for weeks.

He derived minor satisfaction from his accomplishments, mostly centered around the idea that he was making life more pleasant for Sam when he came home. If he devoted too much manic energy to these enterprises, he managed not to think about it. Dean Winchester was nothing if not a master of avoidance techniques. He spent days at a stretch not thinking about how maybe he was fixing all this stuff in the house because he couldn’t seem to fix Sam. Yeah, that was a good thing not to think about. So, Dean just kept fixing things, waiting for Sam to come home, trying to fix Sam when he did, and _not thinking_ about any of that as much as he possibly could.

 

 

**2**

Ever since the last of the TV broadcasts had cut out, Dean had spent a lot of time working his way through the impressive DVD collection he had found in the ridiculously large living room. He could only find so many things to fix, after all, and he had a lot of time to kill. At this point he had watched all the action and horror movies twice, the dramas once, and he’d been forced to start in on the romantic comedies or go crazy staring at the wall.

He was in the middle of _When Harry Met Sally_ , and enjoying it more than he had expected to, when he heard the front door open. His head snapped up and he jammed his finger into the pause button. Almost before Meg Ryan had frozen on the screen, he was up and moving.

Sam stood motionless in the huge, marble-tiled foyer, his bag at his feet, a smudge of dirt—oh, please let it be dirt—across one cheek. By now, Dean was used to the hard, blank look in his brother’s eyes and he knew to approach cautiously.

“Hey, Sam,” he said in a voice designed to put large wild animals at ease. Sam’s eyes flicked in his direction, but there was no recognition in them yet. “Are you hungry? I bet you’re hungry after your trip. Come on into the kitchen,” he continued, still in that soothing tone. He took a couple of steps in his brother’s direction, alert for any sign that Sam was spooking.

Sam just kept standing and staring, which was actually a good sign. Dean reached out a hand and gently took his brother’s arm, waiting again to make sure the touch would be permitted. Apparently it was. Sam allowed himself to be led into the kitchen where Dean pulled bread and various sandwich odds and ends out onto the counter.

It only took him a couple of minutes to assemble a towering sandwich and place it in front of his brother. He sighed in relief when Sam was at least present enough to pick it up and take a bite. He was forcibly reminded of the many years he had spent feeding his little brother in cheap apartments and dingy motel rooms. The gleaming, industrial kitchen they now occupied, made to accommodate Texas sized dinner parties, was a huge improvement aesthetically, but Dean definitely preferred the memories where Sam looked at him, not through him.

“Dean?”

The sound of his name on his brother’s lips pulled him back to the present.

“Yeah, Sammy, it’s me,” he said, a smile of pure relief dawning on his face.

Sam returned to himself pretty quickly after that. He didn’t talk about where he’d been and Dean didn’t ask.

He was afraid that pushing for too much too soon would drive Sam back inside his head, so he didn’t shove his brother up against the sink and kiss him breathless, though the restraint cost him. Instead, he led his brother to the living room and started the movie over.

He sat down, leaning back against the arm of the couch and pulled Sam down in front of him, settled between his legs. He couldn’t really see over Sam’s taller form, but it didn’t matter. The feel of his brother in his arms, the smell of his skin, made the world feel almost right again. Dean breathed deeply, the tension he carried while Sam was gone draining from his muscles. Sam shifted, sinking into the embrace. The bright, chattering banter of the movie buzzed comfortingly just outside the center of his consciousness. He closed his eyes and savored the moment of peace, knowing how short-lived it would be.

By the time the movie ended, Sam was alert enough to tease Dean for choosing a chick flick. That’s when he knew it was safe to lean forward and nuzzle Sam’s neck. Sam made a soft, appreciative noise and rolled his head to the side to provide better access. Dean took advantage with lips, teeth, and tongue, drawing small moans from his brother that went straight to this cock. Sam, pressed close into him, felt his growing hardness and rubbed back against it. He shifted position slightly so he could capture Dean’s lips.

Dean moaned, low and broken, and devoured his brother’s mouth like a starving man. When they finally broke apart, gasping for breath, his eyes prickled suspiciously.

“Missed you so much, Sammy.”

“Missed you too, Dean.”

And if a tear escaped at that, well, no one but Sam was there to see. Their lips met again, softer and searching.

_Do you still love me?_

_Always._

_Will you leave me?_  
  
_Never._

Soon hands joined lips in the search for connection, skating over shoulders, back, chest, hips, thighs, as though the physical closeness could heal the psychic rift between them. Sam turned all the way over, pressing Dean into the soft cushions of the couch which was more than large enough to accommodate two men their size. He licked a hot, wet trail up Dean’s neck that made Dean shudder. He responded grabbing Sam’s earlobe with his teeth and pulling gently. This drew a low growl from Sam that had even more of Dean’s blood making a quick exit from his brain.  
  
The kisses and touches grew more insistent. Dean arched his hips up to find Sam was as hard as he was and groaned. “Too many clothes, Sammy,” he rasped out, reaching for the hem of Sam’s shirt.  
  
Sam nodded and sat back a bit to allow room for Dean to pull the shirt off. Then he bent down and grabbed the collar of Dean’s shirt with his teeth, whining in the back of his throat until Dean obligingly sat up far enough to tug it over his head. Jeans and boxers quickly followed in a flurry of lifted hips and eager hands.

When they came back together, Dean was on top, pressing every inch of himself to every inch of Sam he could reach. Their hard cocks rubbed against each other, sending a line of white hot pleasure along Dean’s spine. He rocked into that sensation for a moment before sliding down Sam’s body, slow and torturous.  
  
He stroked his brother’s length almost reverently, from the base up to the head, and ran his thumb across the crown. Sam made a kind of whimpering sound in his throat that brought a warm smile to Dean’s face. “Like that, Sammy? I’m gonna make you feel good.” And with that he took his brother in his mouth.

He sucked and licked and nibbled, running his teeth ever so lightly along the shaft. Sam was twisting his fingers in Dean’s hair, which had grown out a bit, and saying things like “Oh god, oh fuck, Dean, don’t stop.” And Dean didn’t, until Sam was teetering just on the edge of fulfillment. Then he pulled back.

He met his brother’s eyes. “Need to be inside you,” he said, the words scraping needy and raw against his vocal chords. Sam’s eyes darkened at that, the beautiful opposite of the golden glint that Dean had come to dread.

“Well, come on then,” he urged his big brother.

Dean didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He fumbled for the tube of lube in the end table drawer—not that they’d used the couch for this purpose before or anything—and moistened his fingers. Sam pulled his knees up, spreading his thighs apart and giving Dean a look of pure, molten heat. Dean carefully slid one finger inside his brother, then a second. He opened Sam up carefully, pushing and stretching. When Sam started to move gently against him, he started working him more thoroughly, thrusting in with his fingers and crooking them at just the right angle.

When he brushed against a particular spot inside Sam, his brother inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open. He found it a second time and Sam made that whimpering sound again and began moving in earnest, impaling himself on his brother’s fingers. In another moment, Dean drew his fingers out. He quickly applied the lube to his aching cock and pressed the head in where his fingers had just been.

It took ever ounce of control he had not to slam deep into his brother in one long thrust, but he managed it. He slid in slowly, inch by inch, feeling Sam open up to accommodate him. “Oh, god, Sammy, so good,” he murmured softly as he settled all the way in. For a long moment, they stayed like that, motionless, as deeply connected as it was possible to be. Then Sam raised his head up and captured Dean’s lips, urging him on.

They started moving slowly, building a rhythm and gathering speed as they went. Dean was inches from tumbling over the edge when Sam whimpered, “Dean, I can’t—I need—“ and Dean reached between them, knowing what Sam was asking. A few flicks of the wrist and Sam was coming hard, spurting up between them. His body was clenching around Dean, hot and sweet and that was all it took for Dean to follow his brother into oblivion.

He came to, probably only a moment later, still inside Sam, soft and sated. He tried to come up with the will to move, to pull out, but he couldn’t quite do it. He pressed his lips to the soft place where Sam’s shoulder met his neck, then worked his way up to his lips. Sam brought a hand up to the side of his face and they kissed, slow and deep.

“Love you so much, Sammy,” he mumbled against his brother’s lips, and even now, still buried in his brother, there was a shadow of pain in the words.

“Love you too, Dean,” Sam responded. Maybe Dean was imagining things, but he thought he could hear an echo of fear that maybe it wouldn’t always be true. He shoved hard at all those thoughts, forcing them out of his head. Just for tonight, he wasn’t going to think about it. Because tonight he had the real Sam, his Sam, in his arms, and that had to be enough.

 

 

**3**

Sam had been gone for two weeks this time. That was twice as long as any time before this and Dean was frantic with worry. He had no means of contacting Sam—or anyone, he was having to work harder and harder to believe his brother was still alive, and, to top it all off, he was running out of food and water. No matter what Sam had told him, he didn’t see as he had any choice but to leave the property, if not to go off searching for Sam, at least to find some sustenance to hold him until he came back.

Sam _was_ coming back. He tried, once again, to ignore the ever more insistent voice that said otherwise. He had gotten as far as tossing some clothes and the last of the bottled water into a duffel when he heard the rumble of the Impala’s engine approaching. He tore down the stairs, only barely remembering to stop himself before barreling into Sam and kissing him senseless. It was a good thing he caught himself, though. The second he saw Sam he could tell that, as bad as the other times had been, this was worse.

His hair and clothes were in complete disarray and there was no way Dean could pretend the reddish brown spatters on his face and shirt were just dirt. His eyes shot over at Dean as he entered and there was no missing the yellow gleam. Dean froze, reluctant to make a move until he got a better feel for Sam’s state of mind. He’d go with “not good” for a start.  
  
Dean was almost afraid to breathe and the tense moment seemed to stretch out indefinitely. Then Sam just sort of crumpled. His bag slipped off his shoulder and he sank to the floor as if all his joints had stopped working. A lifetime of protective instinct kicked in and Dean was moving, catching Sam around the shoulders as he hit the marble.

“Sammy?” he said, the single word so full of panic he could barely force it past his lips. He checked his brother for injuries, but found nothing external. “Sam? Are you hurt? Come on, look at me, man!” Finally Sam’s eyes flicked to his face. It was a victory even though the dead look was in them. At least they weren’t yellow anymore.

“’M fine,” he mumbled, looking away again. Dean had to accept that that was all he was going to get out of him for now. He slid in under Sam’s right arm, positioning himself so that he could support most of his brother’s weight, and somehow managed to get them both off the ground. He stumbled along toward the nearest bedroom with Sam only making the most cursory attempt to walk for himself.

They reached the edge of the bed and Dean gratefully let Sam sink onto it. Sam showed no further signs of movement or awareness, so he gently bent down and pulled his brother’s shoes and socks off. He continued undressing his brother as he had so often in their early days out on the road. Dad would drag them off to yet another dingy motel, getting in way past Sammy’s bedtime. Dean would half carry his baby brother inside because he was dead on his feet and settle him into bed while their father salted the doors and windows.

Sam had only been maybe six or seven when he’d rejected this ritual, insisting he could do it himself, but Dean fell back into the rhythm of it now as if it hadn’t been more than fifteen years since he’d done it. He murmured an incoherent stream of comforting sounds as he pulled off Sam’s jacket, outer shirts, and jeans so he could sleep comfortably. He tucked him in and was about to back cautiously away from the bed, figuring Sam would do better alone right now, when his brother shot out a hand and captured his wrist. His eyes were piercing and, more importantly, really _saw_ Dean.

“Stay,” he said, insistent and desperate. Dean swallowed hard and nodded. He quickly shucked off his own jeans and slid in beside Sam. He wrapped his arms around him, rubbing soothing circles on his back. Sam burrowed his head into the hollow under Dean’s collar bone. His body stayed tense in Dean’s arms for a little while, but eventually he sighed, and drifted off. Dean didn’t sleep. He just kept holding his brother close, wondering what kind of horrors he’d seen—committed?—that could do this to him.

Sam was better when he woke up. He was subdued and not in a mood to talk, but he was himself again. Dean walked on eggshells around him all that day, overly solicitous, until sometime mid-afternoon when Sam turned around and snapped, “Damn it, Dean! I’m not an invalid!”

Dean flinched and Sam immediately looked sorry, but he didn’t actually apologize. The rest of the day Dean tried to pretend everything was normal, as if he even had a frame of reference for what that was anymore. That night when Sam curled against him, he managed to get to sleep.

The next morning things were easier between them. There was less unspoken tension crackling in the air and Dean was relieved that Sam seemed to be getting over whatever had brought him home broken. By late afternoon, though, he was starting to get that “leaving” look in his eyes that Dean had come to dread.

He steeled himself to let Sam go as he had become so accustomed to doing, but what he really wanted was to throw himself in his brother’s path and beg him to stay. Before Sam went, though, he had to ask.

“Hey, Sammy? Have you seen Bobby or Ellen? Do you know if they made it okay?” It wasn’t the first time he’d asked. In fact, he asked every time Sam left.

Each time the response was a curt, “No.”

This time was different. Sam’s eyes shot up to meet his, as horrified as if he’d just pulled the pin from a grenade, then he disguised the expression, covering it sloppily with a thin layer of anger. “Why do you have to keep asking that?” he demanded, “Why would I see them anyway?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, Sam,” he said quietly, “You don’t tell me what you do out there. You just tell me to stay put and I do because I trust you, but Bobby and Ellen are pretty much the only people left alive that we care about and I’d just like to know if they’re safe.”

Right as Dean said “left alive,” all the blood drained from Sam’s face and he looked stricken. For a moment Dean could see him trying to put some kind of mask in place, but then the devastation seemed to overcome him.

Tears were pouring down Sam’s face before Dean put together what had happened. He was there in an instant though, guiding Sam over to the couch, sitting him down, and wrapping his arms around him. A stream of words was gushing out of Sam as freely as the tears. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean to—he made me—they were just—oh my God.” The words trailed off, replaced by a keening wail that it made Dean’s chest ache to hear.

Dean held on tight as the sobs wracked his brother, rocking him back and forth and crooning nonsense like he was still five and had just scraped his knee. “Shh, shh, it’s all gonna be all right.” It wasn’t, of course. Dean was getting a fragmented, but sufficiently clear idea about the fate of the last two people the Winchesters might count as family and it seemed likely that nothing would ever be all right again. But Dean said it anyway, murmured over and over into his baby brother’s curly hair, because he wanted it to be true as much as Sam did.

 

 

**4**

The next time Sam came home, Dean went to the door on shaking legs, ready for the increasingly severe near-catatonia he had been dealing with for months. After the breakdown Sam had had the last time, he expected it to be bad. What he didn’t expect was what he found.

“Hey, Dean!” Sam called out. He was bright and smiling and alert. Dean stopped dead and just blinked. His brother hadn’t looked that happy—that unburdened—since long before Cold Oak. It seemed like too much to hope for that Sam might just be miraculously better.

“Sammy,” he greeted cautiously, his eyes hooded. Sam’s twisted his lips in a playful pout.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” He bounded over to his brother and enveloped him in an enthusiastic hug. Dean coughed a bit as all the air was squeezed out of his lungs.

“Yeah, Sam, of course I am,” he responded, a grin tugging at his lips despite his reservations. Sam’s excitement was infectious. His brother released him and stepped back, still grinning.

“I brought you a present,” he announced conspiratorially, his eyes dancing.

“What’s that?”

Sam looked over his shoulder. “Hey, come on in!” he called, most of the warmth draining out of his voice. When he looked back at Dean he was still grinning, but his eyes were flashing yellow.

Dean’s blood froze in his veins and he looked to the door with dawning horror. Gordon Walker entered, clearly not moving under his own power. He was pretty beat up, the most visible injury being a nasty looking cut over his left eye. His eyes met Dean’s as he came in, filled with a sort of hopeless pleading. His attention wrested from the captive man when Sam spoke again.

“Isn’t it great, Dean? I’m gonna make him bleed so pretty for you.”

Dean had to swallow a couple of times before he could force words out of his parched throat. “Uh, thanks, Sam, but it’s okay. Why don’t you just let him go, huh?” There was no love lost between him and Gordon, but he’d never wanted him tortured—much. This was something else entirely, though. He didn’t know what was going on with Sam, but he definitely didn’t want him to hurt someone because he thought it would make Dean happy.

Sam shook his head belligerently. “No way. He hunted me and he hurt you. He has to pay.” He gestured roughly in Gordon’s direction and the older man flew back to hit the wall with a dull crack. Something just under Dean’s ribs twisted at the disturbing familiarity of the image.

Sam waved slightly upward and Gordon slid up the wall until his feet dangled a couple of feet off the floor. “Didn’t I tell you?” Gordon ground out, equal parts anger and fear, “Didn’t I tell you he needed to be put down before it was too late?”

“Shut your mouth!” Sam snapped and Gordon choked pitiably, a trail of blood slipping past the corner of his mouth. Dean inhaled sharply, but he couldn’t seem to take enough air into his lungs. The present situation illustrated Gordon’s point in lurid detail, but somehow Dean’s brain couldn’t make sense of it. This wasn’t his Sammy. It couldn’t be.

Sam made another slight gesture and deep gashes appeared down the side of Gordon’s face and across his chest and arms. He screamed and Dean had never heard anything like the tortured sound of it. He shuddered. “Sam, stop it!” The words felt ripped from him.

Sam turned and looked at him, the picture of confusion. “Why? He hurt you and he has to pay,” he said as though explaining that two plus two equals four.

“It’s okay. I think he’s paid enough now. He’s learned his lesson and he’ll never do it again.” He shot a glance at Gordon. “Right?”

Gordon managed a weak nod. Sam’s face took on that mulish look that meant he wasn’t going to listen to any advice. He shook his head. “Not that kind of lesson,” he said. He extended his fingers out into the air, then clenched them hard into a fist. There was a sickening crack and Gordon’s lifeless form fell to the floor, his neck bent at an unnatural angle.

Dean clapped a hand to his mouth to contain the cry that burst unbidden from him. Sam stared down at his handiwork for a moment, then turned to Dean. He was grinning again. “See, Dean? Don’t you feel better now? He can never bother us again.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but the image of Gordon’s broken, bloody form seemed to be seared on his retinas. He opened his eyes again. Sam was looking at him all pleased and expectant, which was so much worse than the cold numbness he’d had before. Dean could no longer deny that something in his little brother was broken, probably beyond repair. Sam wasn’t going to understand if he responded with the horror and disgust he really felt. He’d probably get angry and, based on what he’d just witnessed, Dean really did not want that to happen.

He forced his lips into a mockery of a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “That’s great, Sam,” he choked, “I’ll be right back, ok?” Without waiting for a response, he hurried out of the room. Once he was in the hall, he broke into a half-run, making for the farthest bathroom in the house so Sam wouldn’t hear him empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet. After there was nothing left to expel, he retched for a few more minutes before the spasms subsided. He pressed his forehead against the cool porcelain, breathing hard and trying to collect himself.

When he was sure he had his gag reflex firmly under control, he stood slowly and carefully. He rinsed the bitter taste of stomach acid from his mouth, then ran his hand over his face and through his hair. He glanced in the mirror to make sure there was no visible trace of his reaction, then went to rejoin Sam.

When he walked back into the room, Sam’s eyes lit up and he bounded over. His puppy-like demeanor was a stark contrast to the scene of wanton violence and the blood spattered all over his face and clothes.

“You’re back!” he said, grinning and moving in for a kiss. Dean diverted, subtly he hoped, into a hug. He really wasn’t sure how his recently emptied stomach would feel about the mingled tastes of Sam and semi-innocent blood. Once wrapped in his brother’s long arms, he clung for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, feeling like he was barely keeping from drowning. He realized the bitter irony of trying to take comfort from the source of his pain, but then, he didn’t really blame Sam. It was that damned yellow-eyed bastard. It had to be.

He didn’t realize he’d tightened his grip almost to the point of pain until Sam made a small sound of protest and pulled back. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, concern and confusion clouding the happy look in his eyes.

Dean shook his head and his fake smile was a bit more convincing this time around. “Nothing, Sammy. Just not feeling that great is all. Probably something I ate.”

Sam seemed to accept this, but he kept shooting concerned glances at his brother while they cleaned up the carnage. By the time they had disposed of Gordon’s corpse in a rock-salt-laden bonfire, the sun had long set. Sam suggested they go to bed. “Especially since you’re not feeling well.”

Dean worried about what Sam might want from him once they were in bed, but his brother seemed to sense he wasn’t in the mood. They stripped down and got in bed. Sam just wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled him close. Dean came willingly, tucking his head in under Sam’s chin and fighting the stinging sensation behind his eyes.

Sam rubbed his back soothingly. “Don’t worry, Dean,” he murmured, “See, I can take care of us now. I’ll keep you safe, ok?”

Dean bit his lip hard to stifle the sob that rose in his throat. _He_ was supposed to be the one taking care of _Sam_ and it was glaringly obvious that he had failed. He had tried so hard to hold his little brother together in the face of all the horror, but it hadn’t been enough. _He_ hadn’t been enough. And now, even though it was clearly too late and Sam had gone careening off some mental precipice, he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to keep that promise, made so long ago. Not with Sam staring him down with those same soulful puppy-dog eyes and promising to protect him.

He’d stay by his brother’s side no matter how bad it got, no matter how horrified he felt, no matter what. As he let himself be lulled into sleep by the rhythm of Sam’s breathing, it ran like a mantra through his head.

_No matter what._

_No matter what._

_No matter what._


End file.
